


Compromised

by lotrspnfangirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adrenaline, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Bottom Sam, Community: smpc, Hand Jobs, I Don't Even Know, Isn't an apocalypse a near death experience?, M/M, Near Death Experiences, PWP without Porn, Survival, its porn - just read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 02:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11591529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrspnfangirl/pseuds/lotrspnfangirl
Summary: Dean Smith has come a long way from business attire and lattes -- two and half sugars, not three, please. Or, it may just be that the world has come a long way and he had to adapt. Thrown into a world where the dead is living, he and Sam Wesson find a new way of life on the outskirts of the city. The difference between life and death was black and white, you survived if you had the means to, the supplies and shelter. It didn't hurt to have someone to ride out this new crazy existence with, either.





	Compromised

**Author's Note:**

> I… I don’t even know how this became porn. U’beta’d but hand helding done by CassondraWinchester!
> 
> Written for SMPC! Sorry it's late, had a family emergency! 
> 
> Feedback fuels the fire <3

Sweat, blood, and tears, greater emphasis on the blood, was what the world had come to. He could hardly remember what the world was like _before_ , when the worries he had were if he could beat the morning rush hour on his way to the office and if the street cart on the corner would forget he liked two and a _half_ sugars, not three. It had seemed simple then, in hindsight. Anxiety was fixed with a pill, fear was soothed with a touch, sadness was erased with another’s compassion.

What he wouldn’t give for a coffee right now…

The sun beating down on his shoulders was hot, the air around him thick with humidity, heavy with the smell of death. He hated coming into the city now. Where he once would feel comforted by the large, glass buildings, reflecting their grandiosity in the sunlight, he now feared them. They were too big, too solid, taking up too much space and not enough at the same time. Still, the city was a gold mine, littered with as many resources as danger and dead.

The wall against his back was cool and he slowly moved his way down, crouching on the sidewalk as low as he could go before he peeked around the corner and down the street. It was congested with cars, most of the doors open or windows smashed, but they weren’t what they were in the city for. Cars were easy to loot, but finding something worth the noise of the alarm of shattering glass was rare. The street itself, was empty.

He stayed for another moment, listening as best as he could for signs of anything he couldn’t see. Alleys and walkways that were once home to café tables and sidewalk shops were now unsafe pits, half shrouded in darkness. 

On the street corner across from him, the forgotten Caffeine Cart stood, the wheels deflated and metal rims eating into the pavement while the plastic of the cart itself was warped from the elements. For a moment, he contemplated making his way across, breaking into the base and seeing if the ground coffee could be spared. He swallowed that thought down, along with the sudden memory of rich, dark heat at the back of his tongue. It wasn’t worth the risk. 

Before the temptation could grow, he pushed away from the wall and moved around the corner, down the sidewalk in a crouched position. The boots he wore crunched on the fallen leaves scattered around the pavement, and he winced with each step. His heart worked hard, pumping adrenaline laced blood through his veins, the steady throb against his throat a reminder that he was here and alive; a blessing and a curse. 

Today’s mission was for medical supplies, and as always, any food they could manage to find. It had been three months since the blood plague had started, since the dead started rising and spreading their disease. From the last bits of coverage they’d been able to see, it was pandemic, though the city of Columbus was enough to wrap his head around. 

The first time the word had been uttered, he rolled his eyes and turned off the television. It was a ridiculous notion, and he hadn’t had time for it. He’d gone around in circles, wondering if things would’ve been different if he _had_ listened then, but the ‘what if’s and ‘if I’s were overwhelming, took too much mental energy, when survival was exhausting enough. Then, the topic of conversation in Sandover’s elevators were no longer about bridges and marketing and numbers, and were tainted with fear and whispers of death and dying. 

Still, he hadn’t expected it to happen. Not here, not to him and people he knew. 

His vision wavered at the sudden overwhelming emotions and he paused in his movements, looking down at his hands until everything around him stopped shaking. He couldn’t lose control, not here, not out in the open. He flexed his right hand around the pistol he was carrying, the silencer at the end reflecting the noon’s sun. His knuckles were bruised, bloody, and he knew the rest of his arms beneath the thick jacket, were just as bruised and scared. 

It was a long way from suits and ties and workout gear. 

_Focus_. He blew out a breath, pulling himself back to the here and now. There was time to reflect and remember later. Besides this right here, living defensively on the outskirts of the city, and praying like hell that tomorrow something would change, all they had was time. 

Just a block down, he knew his partner was folding his six foot plus frame as small as he could and was creeping down the sidewalk, just like he was. The plan was to meet in the middle after he broke into the CVS, Sam into Walgreens. Looking down in the city streets from his office windows, he used to think it was redundant to have two, sometimes three, pharmacies on the same block -- now it was one of the simple things he got excited over. Or, it would be if they actually found something. 

As he approached the store front, he slowed once more and took another moment to look around the deserted street. He could hear something in the distance, at least a few blocks down, and he sent up a silent prayer to whatever wasn’t listening, that whatever it was stayed in that direction. 

The art of getting through a shop window, especially in the city, was a challenge they’d had to overcome quickly. The difference between life and death was black and white, you survived if you had the means to, the supplies and shelter, and that wasn’t achieved without solidifying the appropriate skill set. 

Sam had somehow known how to pick locks already, a hobby he’d picked up from home economics, though it was doubtful that was what the course had actually entailed. They both could fight and nights at their shelter were used for practicing hand to hand combat -- quieter and more resource friendly than firing a gun. As for himself, his skill resided in being smart and resourceful. 

Finding the glass cutter had been shit luck, a pit stop in a family owned handyman store that fixed and sold windows to escape a horde. It had proved damn useful, too, when he’d taken out one of the dead after they stumbled into the store room with him. It had been Sam that had recognized it for what it really was; he didn’t know what he would’ve done if he hadn’t had Sam at his side. 

He lay the glass down as quietly as he could, grunting softly at the weight and size of it. A quick sweep of the store front confirmed that it was both empty and ransacked prior. Pain medication and antibiotics would be gone, they’d found better luck scoring those items in abandoned apartments anyways, but that wasn’t what they’d trekked into the city for today. 

He slid his worn out backpack of his shoulder, holding one of the straps in the same hand as his pistol, and moved down the feminine hygiene aisle before turning towards the hair care. He picked up a bottle of shampoo, laying it on the bottom of his pack, and the found a package of Lever soap bars. His heart skipped a beat in excitement as he spotted a familiar bottle beneath the shelving unit. _Advil_. Unexpected, but Sam would be happy, too, over the find. 

He picked up a few rolls of toilet paper, a tube of toothpaste and two two-packs of brushes, a bottle of children’s tylenol, and a package of Benadryl. Although he had expected it, he was still disappointed when the snack counter was completely empty, the only thing left in the area being an old cooler with milk-based drinks, and no amount of coffee -- even hazelnut dark roast -- would get him to open that door. 

Another sweep around the store producing a pair of nail clippers and a bottle of lube, and he made his way back towards the window, crouching down to listen to the street before peering around the edge of the glass. It was still silent, which was good, but the stillness of the street made him nervous. 

He dropped the backpack onto the sidewalk, then climbed through the hole in the glass. He straightened, cracking his back before picking up the backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He could see the Walgreen’s sign sticking out from the side of the building up ahead, but there was no sign of Sam. He hoped that meant his partner had better luck in finding supplies. 

As he passed a small coffee shop, a bang against the glass door made him jump back, gun pointed. The dead figure was female, a young woman if he had to guess, and one of the first ones to go. Her flesh was rotting, pulled taught and peeling away from her skull and bones. Everything on her was covered in blood, dirt, discolored from the sunlight coming through the glass day after day. The brightest thing on her was a bright green band around her wrist, only there because it couldn’t slip past her thumb. 

Bright green: Immunity. That had been short lived… He and Sam both held yellow bands for “compromised”, a carrier sentence before they realized they were all carriers, and the red was reserved for the dead. 

He spared another moment, watching her mottled fingers drag against the glass, the moans and growl spilling from her half open mouth blocked by the thickness of the glass tomb she was enclosed in. He shook his head, whispered, “I’m sorry” and continued on his way to meet Sam.

The door to Walgreens was slightly ajar, closed enough that nothing could wander in off the streets. Unlike the CVS, these windows were plastered with cardboard and sale signs, taped up haphazardly in some desperate attempt to keep the plague and it’s victims out. Now, it just made it all the more dangerous -- darkness was never their friend anymore. 

He slipped in through the door, pulling it almost shut behind him, and then waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. The main part of the store was empty. The shelves were all stacked and shifted to create a shelter and form rooms. Some were tipped over with thin mattresses dragged on top of them for beds, and old cookstove was on it’s side in the center. He checked that first, but the propane had already been removed. 

Everything else was gone, the ground spotless of merchandise and only covered in dust and grime. Anxiety was an unwanted guest as it swirled through his stomach, making his chest tight and his hands sweat. Sam should’ve met him already, there was nothing _here_. 

He crouched down, squinting in the dim light offered by the door, and tried to see if there were tracks in the dust. He held his breath, listened. Then, his heart stopped. It wasn’t a scream, but it might as well have been. He shot up straight and dropped his backpack with a loud thunk on the floor, the strap catching one of the shelves and yanking it loose with a loud, metal smack. 

Noise wasn’t an issue anymore. He couldn’t barely register anything over the pounding of his pulse, loud and heavy through his veins, the quick thumping of his boots against the tiled floor as he all but ran to the back of the store. 

“Dean!” Sam’s voice was strangled, breathless, coming from behind a large wooden door to enter the pharmacy. He kicked the bottom of it as he went by in frustration, knowing there was no way it would be unlocked from this side, and ran past to the pharmacy counter as the sounds of a struggle went on. 

He slammed his gun down on the counter before jumping up, swinging his legs over in a smooth motion and picking his weapon up as soon as his feet hit the floor. He clicked off the safety and stalked towards the office, both grateful and worried the struggle was still ongoing. 

The office door on this side of the wall was open and Sam was pressed against the opposite door Dean had kicked, thick, near-black congealed blood spattered up the side of his throat, across his shirt. The smell of death hit him, something that he always expected he would be used to by now, but it never failed to take him off guard, make his stomach roll. The corpse on the ground with a bullet through its brain, black oozing from the opened skull against the floor, was reason enough, and yet another one dead lay right at Sam’s feet. 

Sam’s arms were extended straight, holding back a corpse that was anything but dead. It’s fingers were scratching at Sam’s forearms, the exact reason they wore jackets despite the eighty degree weather, fingernails cracked, yellowed and blackened as they caught on the leather. 

“He was- behind the door,” Sam grunted, lifting a knee to try to shove the thing back. “He came up behind me.”

Dean swore under his breath, picking up Sam’s gun from the floor, most likely dropped when he was attacked and shifted his position. Closer, there was a brighter red smear coming out from beneath Sam’s shirt and Dean knew that blood wasn’t from one of the dead. 

“Hold him away from you,” he demanded, unnecessarily, and hated the way his voice broke at the end. Sam set his jaw and locked his arms, turning his head away as Dean raised his pistol and fired, the crack of bullet cracking through bone louder than the gun shot itself. 

As the body fell to the ground, limbs twitching as it settled, Dean lifted his arm to find Sam’s already outstretched hand, grasping him tightly and yanking him forward. He stumbled over the bodies and Dean gripped his bicep, squeezing once in reassurance -- you’re okay, they’re dead, we’re good. 

He reached for the handle of the door, dragging it through the blood and brain matter, before spinning Sam around and slamming his back against it. 

“Dean, wha-” 

“Shut up,” Dean surged forward, claiming his mouth. Sam’s tooth nicked his bottom lip, a hint of copper taking over the taste of their kiss, but copper was good, it meant _alive_. Sam gave just as good as he got, kissing Dean back with all he had, breathing hard into his mouth, releasing the leftover adrenaline coursing through his veins as he calmed his heart with his lover’s touch. 

“I told you we shouldn’t have split up,” Dean said into his mouth, hands trailing over Sam’s face, his neck, pulling his shirt down to check his injury. 

“It’s not- not from them,” Sam whispered, letting his head thunk back against the door and baring his throat. “They had a booby trap against the side entrance, stupid really, it as just a bit of wire…”

The cut was superficial, tacky with plasma as it clotted, and Dean released a shaky breath, fingertips touching the angry skin around the cut. “You stupid, son of a bitch,” he shook his head and leaned in, pressing their foreheads together. “How many times have you told me-”

“I know, enough times that I should’ve checked,” Sam cut him off, silencing him with another kiss. 

“Some traps are _good_ , Sam! Damn good! It could have,” Dean shook his head, continuing the exploration over his chest, arms, back. Feeling the leather for any tears because God help them if there were. 

“I know, but they didn’t.”

Dean ignored him, fingers dipping into his sides, clinging to him, pulling him closer. He found Sam’s mouth again, licking inside as his partner opened for him. He swallowed the soft sigh, tongue sliding over Sam’s and pressing in deeper. They didn’t have time, there wasn’t ever time anymore. It was here, it was now, it was this. 

He rolled his hips forward, groaning into Sam’s mouth as the hard line of his erection pressed against Sam’s. _Before_ he would’ve taken his time, peel off layer after layer of clothing until Sam was breathless, skin flushed in the air conditioned office with his back keeping the door closed. He would’ve taken his time, fingers seeking heat as they mapped their way down Sam’s body, lips and tongue and teeth moving across his skin. Before, he would’ve hidden his words against Sam’s flesh. 

He remembered the first time, the way Sam had been pressed against his office door, cheek pressed against the wooden door, hips pushed out and legs open wide. Dean had taken him apart, stretching him slow, each drag of his fingers pressing his thoughts into the most intimate parts of Sam. When Sam braced himself against the door, Dean laid his hands over them, lacing their fingers together as he moved inside of him. He rolled his hips slow, waited until Sam was panting, shoving his hips back with every thrust to meet Dean’s hips, unable to bite back the moans of pleasure. 

After they came together, Sam had stayed, curled up against Dean on the office couch behind the darkened shades. Dean wished he hadn’t been afraid to open them wide, to let everyone know Sam was his...

Now, everything was compromised, the people surviving and struggling to continue doing so, just the start. The food, the water, the air they breathed. They were on borrowed time, living moment to moment, and Dean refused to hesitate in letting Sam know how he felt, what he wanted. 

“We go together, from now on,” he said as his fingers found the snap to Sam’s jeans, tugging almost too forcefully at it until it slipped free, the material sliding easily over Sam’s thin hips. He nodded in agreement, hands moving forward to open Dean’s pants, too. “I can’t fucking lose you…”

“Dean,” Sam’s voice broke and he gripped Dean’s bare hips, hauling him in, groaning as their bare skin touched and he found Dean’s lips once more. Dean reached between them fisting both of their cocks in his hand and giving them a firm stroke. 

“You’re safe,” he whispered, squeezing once and groaning against Sam’s cheek. “We’re safe, we’re good.” 

Sam just nodded, gasping as Dean twisted his hand, then released them to bring his hand up. Wordlessly, Sam reached for his wrist, dragging him in and pressing his tongue, warm and wet over Dean’s palm. Sam reached for Dean’s head, fingers digging in this side of too painful in the back of his neck and the back of his head. 

Dean gasped from the pressure, returning his hand to their cocks and stroking down. Sam pulled him in, biting his lower lip and sucking it into his mouth. It was frantic, the too-rough drag of Dean’s calloused palms against their heated skin made him press closer into the heat of Sam’s body. The desperation, the pain, reminding them both that they were okay, they were alive and here, right now, sent fire lighting up through his veins. 

Sam whimpered into his mouth his hips rolling forward into the tight channel of Dean’s fist. They moved together, Dean fucking up as Sam pulled back, the drag of skin on skin slicked from precome leaking from their cocks, caught by Dean’s fist and smoothed down with each pass. 

“Fuck, Dean,” Sam groaned, his legs starting to shake. His hands moved down Dean’s shoulders, clinging to his back. “I thought that this was-”

“Shut up,” Dean cut him off, “Don’t think like that, don’t let it even cross your mind.” He moved his wrist faster, twisting on the upstroke, and Sam surged forward, teeth finding Dean’s neck to muffle his cry as he spilled over his fist. The burst of wet heat soothing the slight burn of his fist was enough to push Dean over the edge, too, and he grunted, grabbing the back of Sam’s head and pulling him up to find his lips as he came. 

They stood there, breathing hard, the final pulses of adrenaline settling as they rode down their high. Sam let out a shaky laugh, squeezing Dean’s shoulders before gently pushing him back. “We should get out of here,” he whispered. 

Dean nodded, gave him a small smile, and reached down to wipe his hand clean on his jeans. The collected Sam’s backpack and Dean held it open while Sam dropped in the few bottles of antibiotics he’d managed to find in a lock box. A shiny bag caught Dean’s attention and he reached for it, eyes widening when he pulled it free. 

“We hadn’t been able to find any lately,” Sam said with a shrug, taking the backpack and waiting for Dean to put the bag back. “Wanted it to be a surprise,” he gave a small laugh and Dean looked up, fingers tightening around the bag of coffee grounds. 

“I love you,” he said, simply, matter of fact. 

Sam rolled his eyes fondly and reached for the bag, tossing it into the backpack and zipping it up. He slung it over his shoulder and reached for Dean, his hand a warm, heavy comfort in Dean’s own. He gave a squeeze and Dean squeezed back before releasing him, both of them picking up their guns from the tile and making their way to the pharmacy counter. 

They checked the street, still as empty as it was when they’d arrived what felt like hours ago, and then slipped out the door. They made their way down the block, walking close together, eyes scanning the area with every step until the buildings began to space out, their building and safe haven coming into view. As Sam opened their makeshift gate, he stopped Dean as he moved to slip past. 

“Thank you,” he whispered and Dean nodded, squeezing his shoulder. “I love you, too.”

“I know,” Dean smiled, helping him pull the gate shut and secure it into place. He follow after Sam, thinking about how close he’d come to having this moment be very different than it was now. Sam’s arms had been shaking, the effort it had taken to hold off the dead making his muscles scream, adrenaline the other thing helping him fight. If Dean had been minutes later, if the dead had gotten through his jacket, if--

“Stop thinking.” 

Dean glanced up and realized he’d stopped, standing in the middle of the walkway, tension bleeding from his shoulders the moment the gate was closed and exhaustion starting to set in. He smiled, blew out a breath and nodded his head. What ifs didn’t matter, their entire existence was compromised, and Dean would be damned if he spent the next moments thinking about what could have been. Sam smiled, knowing, and reached for Dean’s hand.

Together, they walked into the building. Together they would survive, for as long as they could.


End file.
